Broken / Free

If you’ve achieved whole
moments of completion

free of snark, flecks of ecstasy
abiding months or days

grateful, gracious,
joyous, or empty of desire,

the whole design of scapes
without a goat,

theorems without a thought,
companionship free

of compartments, or purpose
without worry,

but the sidewalk ended there:
realizing you

were walking on a sidewalk
without a road nearby,

wouldn’t it be absurd,
this concrete proxy

pretending to be its own
road, own ride, own raid?

Our words all related
in so many hurried

and easily hurtful ways.
The simple connectedness

of things that need now—
needs say—to pass through

their punctures.
Points taken

to extremes that seem
helplessly unlikely, but here

we are, depressing on.
What wood to diverge in?

The earth is filling up
with our tracks

and intransigence.
Nature at our margins,

our mire of mercies,
and if by now you’re yards

away, socks into burrs,
are you sure

you’ve stepped off
into the right

afterlife-in-life, this
nothing-sacred forest?

This copse a grove?
This don’t-call-it-that

core of corps.
This-please, for-your-

own-safety, don’t-think
of-corpse corporation.